


I'll Tell You My Sins and You Can Sharpen Your Knife

by illumynare



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-typical language, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Guilt, Pining for Friendship, SO MUCH DRIPPY ANGST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-24 02:18:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12002877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illumynare/pseuds/illumynare
Summary: Locus understands why Kimball would want to keep him alive long enough to testify at Hargrove's trial.He doesn't understand why the Reds and Blues would volunteer to protect him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE THANKS TO TALLER FOR THE BETA. <3
> 
> Warning: this fic does have some Tower of Procreation references. I hate that plot point, but I love the idea of Tucker having a million children. Please assume the retcon of your choice to make the whole thing less disturbing.

When Locus takes Agent Washington to Chorus for medical treatment, he knows what it means. Agent Washington will live. And Locus will be executed for his crimes.

He had hoped for more time to make things right. But it’s an acceptable trade.

Instead, they put him into solitary confinement.

As the days wear on, Locus starts to lose track of time. He's always hated chatter, but now the silence presses down on him like a weight, crushing him into a daze.

This, too, is acceptable. If they leave him here to hate himself alone forever, that is still better than he deserves.

When the armored soldier breaks into his cell to kill him, Locus would accept that too. But he recognizes the standard-issue Charon equipment. He fights for his life, because there are too many people who deserve to kill him first.

He lives.

Two days later, Kimball hands him over to the Reds and Blues.

* * *

"Yeah, apparently Charon really wants you dead before you can testify, and we were all kinda getting tired of giving interviews anyway, so we volunteered to go hide you somewhere until the trial, and this is gonna be _awesome,"_ says Grif. He's jiggling a little, bouncing on his feet.

Locus stares at him, feeling dazed. He doesn't think he's been in solitary confinement for more than two weeks, but he feel like he's already forgotten how to speak to another person.

"Agent Washington," he says. "What is his condition?"

He'd been stable two weeks ago, Locus had gotten that much out of Kimball during his interrogation. But he hadn't heard any more since.

As soon as he asks the question, though, he knows the answer: Agent Washington is all right.

If Locus had failed to save him, the Reds and Blues would not be helping keep him alive now.

"He's doing great! Grey is releasing him, so he's coming with us. We found this _great_ abandoned colony to hide out on."

"Ah," says Locus, but he doesn't understand.

It makes sense to keep him alive for Hargrove's trial: he could give testify to a great many of Charon's crimes. But surely the Reds and Blues know that by hiding _with_ him, they're putting themselves in danger. After all they have been through, they don't deserve that extra burden.

But he doesn't protest as he follows Grif out of the cell.

He has no right to protest anything they do with him now..

Outside, there's a row of guards waiting, and also a soldier in teal armor, the hilt of a Sangheili sword hanging at his hip.

Lavernius Tucker.

"Yeah, I still don't like this," says Tucker.

"Sucks to be you," says Grif. "We're doing this."

"Hmph," says Tucker, and then draws his sword. The shimmering blade hums into being, and Tucker levels it at Locus's throat.

Locus doesn't move. He's confident that Tucker isn't about to kill him. If he's going to make some sort of demonstration—well—he deserves it.

"Listen," says Tucker. "I don't care if you knife Red Team in their beds, but if you hurt Wash or Caboose, I will _cut you."_

Locus stares at him. "I'm not going to kill you," he says stiffly, even though he knows it doesn't make a difference.

Nobody should ever trust him again.

"What about Carolina?" asks Grif.

Tucker shrugs. "Eh, if he tries to hurt Carolina, she'll kill him 200% dead. Blue Team is _awesome_ that way."

"You mean like how you got 200% of the women on Chorus pregnant?"

"Okay, seriously? Give that a rest."

* * *

Tucker is not the only one who threatens him in the first few days. So does Agent Carolina ("I want you to get a trial, not a bullet. But we're watching you.") and Sarge ("I hope you know that if you turn against us, there will be red, bloody vengeance! Unless you kill Grif. Then you'll get a medal.")

That's only fair. If Locus had a team, if he still had somebody who trusted him—

 _"We're partners. Survivors. We_ need _each other."_

—he would do the same.

He's a little surprised that Agent Washington does not threaten him the same way. Perhaps it's because of how they meet (again): Agent Washington propped up in his seat on the spaceship, bandages around his throat.

"Hey, big guy," he says, and Tucker flicks a finger at his head.

"That's Locus, remember?"

"Right," says Agent Washington, and gives Locus a slow, wide grin that is—

_innocent, affectionate, NOT FOR HIM_

—delirious.

"He's still on pain medication," says Agent Carolina, and shoves Locus into his seat.

Agent Washington is quieter in the days after. Looks at Locus with more suspicion, as he deserves. But he never threatens him.

Locus . . . is not sure what to make of that.

He doesn't know what to make of anything, now. He expected that the Reds and Blues would confine him to a single room. Perhaps, if they were feeling kind, they would let him out to see the sun once a week.

Instead, they give him free run of their base all the time. They give him back his sword and his sniper rifle. They still _watch_ him, and none of them but Caboose or Grif show him any affection—it's the only reason he can believe this isn't just a hallucination in his solitary cell—but they don't treat him as he deserves.

The days on fall into a quiet pattern. Locus wakes up at 5:00 a.m. Practices with his sword or sniper rifle until 6:00. Attempts to meditate the way the Sangheili taught him until 7:00.

At 8:00, he wonders why he's there.

There was one time he tried to ask Grif, but he had just started rambling about how it was one of life's great mysteries.

Locus is not foolish enough to imagine that they are treating him so kindly because they have forgiven him, that they are trying to rehabilitate him. His crimes were monstrous, and there is no coming back from them.

No. He's alive only because he is useful. If the Reds and Blues are treating him kindly, it's only because they think it will make him obedient. That's the only thing that makes sense.

So why haven't they given him any orders yet?

He wishes that whatever his mission, they would hurry up and _give_ it to him. It is not pleasant, living with the Reds and Blues. Except for the two Freelancers, they are all completely unprofessional. Loud, annoying, and stupid.

And more than that, they . . .

"Aww, c'mon," Tucker whines, "we haven't watched _Reservoir Dogs_ in like a _year."_

"Two months," says Agent Carolina. She's leaning back into the couch, Agent Washington cuddled against her left side, Donut sitting on her right and painting her nails. "We watched it the night before Dylan Andrews turned up."

Agent Washington clears his throat. "When we were locked in our armor—"

"Oh my GOD give that a rest already," says Grif. He's sitting at the table next to Simmons, a hand on his shoulder while Sarge adjusts something in the cybernetics of his arm. "I was stuck here alone with nobody to talk to but _volleyballs_ , and do I ever bring that up?"

"Just _all the fucking time_ , asshole," Simmons mutters.

"So, _Reservoir Dogs_?" says Tucker.

"Don't you have like five hundred kids you should be spending time with instead?" Grif says peevishly.

"Dude, I have _fifteen._ And we're in witness protection, remember? But Marisol just started crawling, do you want to see videos?"

"Oh, no," Agent Washington mutters as Tucker pulls out a tablet. But despite his words, the way he looks at Tucker is—

_the way he only looked at Locus while he was drugged_

—fond.

And Locus, standing in the corner of the room with his active camo running, feels suddenly. Very. He's not even _sure_ what he's feeling.

He just knows that he never felt it around Felix, Felix whom he seldom _liked_ but who was always ready to remind him that they were partners, they were the same, survivors and weapons and relics of the Great War together.

Locus doesn't belong here, in this room, among these people.

"Well, I think that Locus should pick the movie," says Caboose, suddenly looking straight _at_ Locus, right through the camo. "I mean he has been waiting invisibly in the corner for a long time."

Locus flees.

* * *

More and more, he thinks about Felix. There are too many things about the Reds and Blues that remind him: the way that Tucker swaggers sometimes. The way that Donut can't resist pushing people's buttons until they scream. The way Agent Carolina grins when she takes down Agent Washington in a sparring match.

Too many things that remind him of Felix, and yet it's painfully clear how _different_ these soldiers are than his "partner." How much better.

Locus can't stop thinking about what the alien AI said to him at the Communications Temple: _You were broken by war. It was his goal to see you never healed._

He can't stop remembering what Felix had said to him, again and again, from the very beginning: _that broken fucking brain of yours._

He should have known. He should have _seen._ Locus has understood too much since Felix died, and here with the Reds and Blues, he starts to understand more. Every time Felix slapped him on the shoulder, leaned against him as they sat waiting—

There were even a few times, and Locus cringes to remember them now, when Felix muttered, _Wow, you are_ fucked up _tonight,_ and worked his fingers into the tense muscles in Locus's neck, or ran them soothingly through his hair.

Locus remembers how he relaxed, how he was _grateful,_ and he wants to tear himself apart. He sees the way that Tucker sometimes gives head massages to Agent Washington, while Agent Washington hums in gratitude, and he feels like he's going to vomit.

Because he knows now: it was never friendship that Felix showed him. It was only the coaxing techniques of a wild animal trainer.

 _Ignorant creature. Your partner is afraid of_ you _._

And yet sometimes, he regrets.

Sometimes—when he sees the others laughing together and knows they will stop if he approaches—he wishes that Felix were still alive. Because Felix, at least, was willing to dirty his hands with Locus. Willing to pretend they were fellow-travelers.

And then one night, as he's tossing in his bed, trying to sleep and not remember—

"Hey, partner."

The cold edge of a knife presses on his throat.

Instinct keeps Locus perfectly still as his eyes snap open. Even in the dim light, he can clearly see the face leaning over his—those eyes, that _smile—_

Felix.

"Impossible," Locus whispers, but the protest is weak. Because this is Felix, but not the one he remembers—the one he sometimes dreams about. This is a thinner, paler Felix, with a network of scars across his face worse than Donut's.

This isn't a dream.

"Aww, c'mon, you can admit that you missed me," says Felix.

"You died," says Locus. The hilt of the alien sword is under his pillow—no good to him now, when Felix could cut his throat in a heartbeat, but still proof of what happened at the Temple.

"Fun fact about aliens: they like to fuck with death. So now I'm here to fuck with you and your little friends."

Felix reaches under his pillow and pulls out the sword. It flickers to life in his grasp, and Locus realizes suddenly that he hasn't used the sword in . . . at least a week. More than enough time for Felix to come back to life, to reclaim what's rightfully his.

"Playtime's over, Locus," says Felix, smirking down at him as he holds the point of the sword to his throat.

It's not possible. And yet, as Locus stares up at Felix, heart pounding, he remembers some of the legends he heard from the Sangheili who taught him to use the sword. They spoke of stranger things than this.

"I won't let you hurt them," he says, but Felix just laughs.

"Wow. I mean, I always knew you were crazy, but trying to threaten me when I've got a fucking _alien sword_ at your throat?"

Locus can't help flinching at the word _crazy._ In all their time together, no matter how bad things got, Felix had never said that word.

"Ooh, sorry, didn't mean to trigger you," says Felix. "But actually, I'm here to make you an offer. I think you've already figured out how much you _don't_ belong with these losers."

"They're not—" Locus starts, and then falls silent. Felix smirks at him.

They both know what Locus didn't deny: that he doesn't belong with them.

"Yeah. I'll be back soon." Felix pulls the sword away from Locus's throat. "Not too late to be on the right side, partner."

And then he's gone, vanished into the shadows.

For a moment, Locus can't move. He's still paralyzed by the memory of Felix's voice— _he can't be here, he CAN'T BE HERE_ —and the crushing weight of his words, _you don't belong._

Then he gets up. Staggers to the door.

He has to warn the others.

They're all in the rec room, sleeping together in a pile on the couch. At any other time, the sight would put a hollow, lonely feeling in Locus's gut. Now all he can think is how fragile they are, how _unprepared—_

"Wake up," he says. "Felix is here."

"Whuzzat?" says Agent Washington, as Tucker says, "The fuck?" and Agent Carolina comes awake with a quiet, "What is it?"

"Felix is here," Locus repeats. "He's got my sword." Speaking the words make his chest hurt—he doesn't _want_ to do this—but they deserve a warning. He can't let Felix hurt them again.

"Is he speaking . . . Sangheili?" asks Grif, staring at Locus with a puzzled expression.

"Stop talking nonsense," says Locus. "You have to get up and find Felix _now._ "

"No, it's not Sangheili," says Tucker, looking at him. "Just some kinda . . . gibberish."

Agent Washington looks Locus up and down. "Maybe he's gone crazy," he says.

"Yeah, not too surprising," says Tucker.

" _Listen to me_ ," says Locus. "Felix is—"

The crushing weight of somebody in full power armor slams him to the ground. Locus gasps for breath, as an armored hand hooks around his throat—

"Got him," says Agent Carolina, grim satisfaction in her voice.

"Wait," says Locus. "You have to listen. Felix is in this base."

"Huh, he won't shut up," says Agent Washington. He's gotten up now, and is peering down at Locus.

Tucker draws his sword, and the blade shimmers into being. "Kimball said to kill him if he gave us trouble."

"Please," Locus begs, sick with dread. This is worse than the vision he had in the temple, because that was only a memory, and this is real. They're in _danger_. "You have to understand me—"

The shimmering blue tip of a Sangheili blade pokes out through Tucker's chest.

 _No,_ thinks Locus, unable to breathe. He struggles against Agent Carolina's grip, but he can't break free.

Tucker chokes and spasms.

Then he falls.

"TUCKER!" Agent Washington yells, lunging for him.

"Hey, thanks for the distraction," Felix purrs from the shadows.

 _No,_ Locus thinks, but Felix moves too fast for any of them. He cuts down Grif, Caboose, Agent Carolina. He swings his sword and Agent Washington falls, choking on his own blood.

"Fuck you— _monster_ —" Agent Washington manages to say, as blood gushes from his throat.

Then he's still.

Locus can't move. He hears Felix slaughtering the rest, but all he can do is stare into Agent Washington's dead eyes.

He hadn't said those final words to Felix. He'd been glaring at Locus as he died.

And he was right.

Locus is a monster. He will never be anything else.

"Seriously," says Felix, crouching down beside him, "I couldn't have done it without you, partner." He lays a hand on Locus's shoulder, the same way he did at the Temple of the Purge, when he said _partner_ and Locus chose again to be a—

_monster monster WHO ARE YOU caught us a monster captain_

—and he wakes.

Locus doesn't realize, at first, that he's awake. That he was sleeping. He can feel his back pressed into the wall, he's vaguely aware of somebody else in the room, but his mind is too full of blood and death and Felix's smug satisfaction. He's gasping and shuddering and wanting to die, and when somebody grabs his shoulders, he struggles without thinking.

Then he realizes it's Agent Washington.

He's alive and unhurt and _it was all a dream._

Locus realizes, suddenly, that his throat is sore. He's been screaming. He probably woke the whole base, and they don't deserve that, he shouldn't make them listen to his _broken fucking brain—_

"Hey," says Agent Washington. "Are you, uh, okay?"

He sounds uncomfortable, but he's not moving. He still has his fingers pressed against Locus's shoulders.

And suddenly, painfully, Locus remembers a night when he woke screaming with memories of the Great War, and Felix was there, Felix pressed fingers into the base of his neck and said, _Are you fucking done yet? You know the war's over, right?_

Felix.

He knows that he's shaking, he's vaguely aware of Tucker and Agent Washington talking over his head, and their voices sound concerned but the only thing that matters is. Is.

_Ignorant creature._

"Okay, uh . . . breathe?" says Tucker, right in his ear. "That would probably be good. And don't rip Wash's arm off. 'Cause then I'd have to kill you."

Locus breathes and he bites his tongue until he bleeds and he _understands._

Because Agent Washington is still touching him. Has a hand against the side of his neck.

And Locus knows what this means, the pressure against his skin, the kindness when he wakes. There's only one reason that anyone has ever treated him this way.

To make him obedient.

The Reds and Blues took him into their care because they wanted a monster to serve them.

Locus doesn't know why. He doesn't know how they're planning use him. But as he leans into Wash's touch—the first person who ever touched him without armor since Felix—

He knows it's no use wondering.

He tried to be a person, to make choices and a create a code for himself. All he did was get Agent Washington nearly killed. So now?

It doesn't matter what they want him to do, what kind of monster they want him to be. He has no more strength left to resist them.

He'll do whatever they want.

He'll be whatever monster they need.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is now a three-chapter story. BECAUSE LOCUS ANGST IS SO MUCH FUN.
> 
> Huge thanks to Salt for letting me use her pancakes headcanon!

In the days that follow, Locus finds a strange sort of peace.

It's like when he walked away from the Communications Temple. He was wrapped in the same sort of hazy numbness that came with bleeding out. After so long fighting the idea that he was a monster, it was a relief to finally accept it. To know there was nothing he could do to redeem himself.

It's like that now. It's the _same lesson_ : he's a monster, a weapon, a suit of armor and a gun. He can't be anything else.

At least now he's going to be wielded by somebody better than Felix.

* * *

The Reds and Blues seem to understand they have broken him. Because the way they treat him changes.

It starts the morning after his nightmare. After Agent Washington releases him, Locus slinks back to his room, ashamed of his outburst. He wonders if he'll be told to sleep outside the base, where he can't disturb them. It would only be fair.

But at 7:02 AM, Caboose pounds on his door. When Locus staggers, bleary-eyed, to open it, Caboose grabs him by the arm and says, "IT IS TIME FOR BREAKFAST."

Too dazed to protest, Locus lets himself be dragged into the kitchen, where Tucker is making pancakes and Agent Carolina is frying bacon. Agent Washington is staring at the coffee pot as it bubbles, while Simmons carefully chops a pineapple into perfect squares, and Grif steals pieces.

Locus knows that the two teams have breakfast together regularly. He's never dared intrude before. But now Caboose shoves him into a chair, Tucker sets a plate of pancakes in front of him, and Agent Washington wordlessly pours a giant puddle of maple syrup onto the pancakes. 

"Aw, man, did you have to ruin them?" Tucker grumbles.

"They're better that way," says Agent Washington.

"Who wants to share some whipped cream?" Donut calls from the pantry, and Simmons shrieks, "Donut! _NO!"_

Locus doesn't see the scuffle that ensues. He's eating the pancakes slowly, bite by bite. They're soft and fluffy, tangy with buttermilk and sweet with syrup. He hasn't had pancakes like this—or generous puddles of syrup like this—since before the army, before he was Locus, _before—_

Everything.

Later that day, Tucker—for the first time—demands to spar with him. 

"Lemme see if you know how to do anything with that sword," he says. "Bow-chicka- _bow-wow_."

Locus stares at him, not sure what the final exclamation means.

"Ugh, you're so boring," says Tucker, and with a flick of his wrist, the glowing blade shimmers into being. "Let's do this."

Tucker is better than Locus expected. This is not saying much, and Locus soon disarms him. What's really a surprise, though, is that though Tucker whines and grumbles, he doesn't give up. He _listens_ while Locus demonstrates the techniques he learned from the Sangheili who trained him, the movements he worked out for himself while trying to defend that colony of refugees. 

Tucker listens, and he tries, and Locus is surprised at how quickly he learns.

"Heh, I guess you're not too bad at this," says Tucker, when they finally stop for a break. 

Again, Locus stares at him. Because there's no malice in the words, no backhanded reminder that Tucker is better, more whole—

_as Felix would have reminded him, always DID remind him_

—even though it's true. Locus may be better at fighting with the sword, may have learned from the Sangheili how to wield it, but Tucker is the one who _deserves_ it. 

Tucker is the one who became a hero, and Locus is ashamed that while he was on his quest, he had started to think that he could be one too.

The strange kindness doesn't stop there. The next day, Donut reproaches him about his pores and demands to give him a facial. The thought of letting anyone touch his face like that make Locus feel sick, but he has no more right to refuse anything. 

"Very well," he says.

Donut's fingers are surprisingly strong and gentle as he exfoliates Locus's face and then rubs lotion into it, thumbs pressing against his cheekbones as he works the youth-enhancing, spot-removing seaweed gel into Locus's skin.

"The first rule of facial scars is that you _always_ moisturize," says Donut, and Locus—holding himself tense and still in the chair through sheer willpower—feels a strange fluttering in his chest. 

Nobody has ever talked about his scar this way before: as it was _normal._ As if he hadn't ever been tied down and screaming while an Elite cut the pattern of his helmet into his face, as if he hadn't woken up after being rescued and known that he was—

_broken, a weapon, a suit of armor and a gun_

—forever marked by the war.

Donut is marked too. Locus hasn't asked what caused the spiderweb scar on his face, the drooping eyelid and ragged ear, but he'd guess it was a close encounter with a grenade.

Marked, but not broken.

The pressure on his face is no longer so alarming. Locus shuts his eyes, and doesn't protest when Donut finishes with his face and immediately moves to massaging his shoulders. The contact is strange and frightening and more than he deserves, but it's also comforting. Locus relaxes, and for once he doesn't think of Felix as he hums in contentment, as Donut laughs and says, "See, I _knew_ my fingers could get you moaning."

And then, the next day.

The next day, Locus is sitting alone on the couch in the rec room when Agent Washington walks in.

At once, Locus gets up to leave. Ever since arriving, he's tried to avoid him; he knows his presence can't be welcome to the man he stalked and nearly killed. The cautious glances that Agent Washington gave him proved it. 

"Uh, don't go," says Agent Washington, and Locus freezes. 

It's the first direct order he's been given.

He sits back down. He feels the couch shift as Agent Washington sits down beside him, but he doesn't dare look up at him and meet his eyes.

He can't stop remembering the way he whimpered and shook like a frightened animal. The soothing pressure of Agent Washington's hands on his shoulders, and he hates the impulse that made him leave his room without armor this morning. He doesn't want anyone to see his face right now.

"So, uh." Agent Washington shifts awkwardly. "You sleeping okay?"

"Acceptably," says Locus, wishing he could flee the room.

He'd had another nightmare the night before, but it was just the normal kind: blood and the faces of his victims. He didn't scream when he woke, and he went back to sleep eventually.

There's another pause. Then he hears movement, and he tenses reflexively—

Agent Washington's hand presses against the back of his neck.

For a second, Locus can't breathe. This doesn't make sense. The pressure is too warm, too gentle, too kind. It's not _necessary._ He wasn't screaming, he doesn't need comfort—and he certainly doesn't deserve it. 

But Agent Washington doesn't move his hand.

Locus reminds himself: this isn't real. Of course he doesn't deserve to be treated kindly. But none of the kindnesses shown him over the last few days have been real. 

The Reds and Blues are better than Felix, are going to use him for better purposes, but they are still going to _use_ him.

That's the only thing you can do with a weapon.

The thought should be a comfort. It certainly makes Locus feel less confused; it calms the panic that made him want to flee, and his shoulders finally relax. 

But there's still a sick feeling at the pit of his stomach. Because this firm, relentless kindness that is not quite kindness—it's very familiar.

In the days after he killed the alien, his CO started calling him _Locus_. The whole team followed suit, calling him nothing but _Locus_ , _hey Locus,_ and the nickname hurt—but less each time he heard it, and sometimes there was a camaraderie that wasn't there before, as the other soldiers slapped his shoulders and compared kill-counts. They loathed his cowardice in wanting to spare the alien, but he had proved himself one of them when he killed it.

After he and Felix split from Siris—after they took their first mercenary contract—after they accepted Hargrove's offer—all those times, Felix was different with Locus. Not kind. But he rolled his eyes less, used the word _broken_ less. He was more inclined to brush up against Locus, lean against Locus, heave a sigh and put a hand on his shoulder. Because Locus had proved himself. Had obeyed. Had chosen Felix.

It's like that now.

Locus chose the Reds and Blues, he obeyed them, and so they are rewarding him.

Those are the rules for taming a wild animal: a lure and then a reward for every act of obedience.

Some part of him still wishes that he could have been more. Could have been human. But Locus knows he has to live with his choices.

He closes his eyes and promises himself that when they give him orders, he will be ready.

* * *

But a week passes, and there are no orders.

None that really _mean_ anything. Carolina says, "Spar with me," and he walks away with several bruises and an even greater respect for her. Caboose says, "I made you cookies," and Locus dutifully chokes down the charred lumps until Agent Washington storms into the kitchen and tells him to stop. Tucker says, "Hey, check these new photos," and Locus sits for an hour, wearily agreeing that every one of Tucker's children is "fucking _awesome._ "

They don't need Locus for such trivialities. They _must_ mean to use him for another purpose. And now their kindness is starting to make Locus feel an overwhelming dread.

Because they can't possibly be rewarding him any longer. He's definitely done nothing to earn this treatment. They can't be just waiting to use him after the trial. They have to know that once he's given testimony, he'll most likely be executed.

They must be preparing him. They must be trying to ensure that he is loyal enough, _dependent_ enough, to do whatever they ask.

And what might they be planning to ask if they think he needs this much preparation?

One night, as he cleans Red Team's guns, Sarge grins at him and says, "Say, you ever think about how easy it would be to _accidentally_ fire one of those at Grif while you're cleaning it?"

Locus freezes. Because there could be no accident: he's always careful to unload the guns before he cleans them. So what Sarge is suggesting, is maybe ordering—

_hey I'm orange just like your last partner_

—and he can't do this, Locus thinks numbly, he promised himself he would be obedient but Grif was the first and maybe only one of them to trust him, _he can't do this._

He can't refuse either. He can't make himself say the words, question the order. He can't do _anything_. 

For a few endless moments, Locus just stares at Sarge and thinks, _no, no, please no._

Then Grif yells from the other room, "I HEARD THAT," and ambles in with a six-pack of beer, looking completely unconcerned. 

"Hey, you want one?" he asks, holding out a can.

And Locus finally remembers that when he was pretending to work for the Federal Army, he'd heard Sarge say many times that he was going to shoot Grif as soon as he got him back, and he hoped those terrorist bastards didn't manage to kill him first.

It was a joke, Locus realizes, and the relief is so overwhelming that it takes him several moments to realize that Grif is still holding the can of beer in his face.

It was a joke. But there will come a command that isn't.

That evening, Locus can't sleep. He keeps remembering all the people he killed, and it was easy then to pull the trigger, swing the knife, but now the memories make his hands shake.

A long time ago, he thought that killing made him one of "the good guys." Then he thought it made him a soldier. Now he knows that it makes him a monster.

Locus will kill for the Reds and Blues. He knows this. He doesn't have it in him to refuse them. And he owes it to them, surely, to at least be a _useful_ monster.

He still doesn't want to.

He wishes they would tell him what he's going to do, exactly what kind of monster he'll have to be. The wait is tearing his mind apart. He's never felt dread like this before—

_Except he has,_ when Hargrove started hinting about a "delicate political situation." There was a moment, before Hargrove completely explained what their contract entailed, when Locus felt a sudden surge of dread. He'd already done all kinds of mercenary work, killed many people who didn't really deserve it, but there were still some lines he hadn't crossed.

Deep down, Locus had realized that Hargrove was going to ask him to cross those final lines. But he'd looked to Felix for reassurance, and Felix had nudged him and grinned and then said to Hargrove, "Yeah, we're interested."

Locus had snuffed out that last flicker of his conscience quickly enough. But it had been real. And it was the same dread he's feeling now: the fear of _what will I become?_

He presses his palms over his eyes.

It's not _like_ that. The Reds and Blues are different, _better,_ and whatever they ask him to do—even if it's horrible—will be right. 

But he knows exactly what Felix would say if he were here:

_It's_ exactly _like that, partner. Everybody's got an agenda. And everybody needs a weapon. Good thing you've got that freaky obsession with orders, huh?_

"I'm trying to do the right thing," Locus mutters. 

_Yeah, funny how for you the right thing is always doing what somebody says._

It's true. Locus can't deny it.

But back on Chorus, Agent Washington told Locus he was a monster. Whatever he's planning to make Locus do now, it has to be better somehow than the orders Hargrove gave him.

Locus clings to that thought through the following week, even as sleep becomes rare and he starts flinching whenever anyone says his name.He's tries to hide it, but the Reds and Blues notice anyway. 

That has to be why they're suddenly always around him, always talking to him, always _touching_ him. They see that he's afraid to follow orders, and they're trying to make sure of him. It's driving him mad, and just when he thinks he can't stand it anymore, Agent Carolina drags him away from the others, to the little hill outside their base.

"Take some time alone," she says. "You probably need it."

She turns her back on him, moving to guard his position. Locus stares at the back of her helmet and thinks that she's found a way to make even isolation a kindness. And he's grateful.

That evening there's another movie night, and this time Locus sits on the couch, Caboose on one side of him, Grif on the other. Locus sits rigidly between them, not eating the popcorn, not even trying to watch the screen. 

He tells himself, again and again, that these people are not Hargrove. They are not Felix. He has to trust in them.

That has to be enough.

But it turns out all his fear was pointless. When he draws his sword and kills people a few days later, it's not because anyone gave him a direct order.

It's because Charon finally finds them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first draft of this chapter was a horrifying trainwreck, and it's only decent now thanks to Taller. <3 <3 <3
> 
> It's also thanks to Taller that this is now going to be a four-chapter story, OOPS.
> 
> (also, please note that this story is now tagged for violence)

Locus has been awake for twenty hours, and he's spent the last five of them sitting in on his bed, staring at the wall. It's 4 A.M. The rest of the Reds and Blues are finally asleep, which means that it's finally safe for Locus to leave his room and tiptoe out to the rec room.

He doesn't want the Reds and Blues to know he isn't sleeping, but he doesn't like staying in his room, lately. He keeps starting to think that he's back in his cell on Chorus, alone, _alone—_

His eyes ache and there's a strange, shivery sensation crawling over his skin, even though this is nowhere close to the longest time that Locus has spent awake. As a soldier, bounty-hunter, and mercenary, double or triple shifts were necessary from time to time. Felix hated them—he would yawn and grow snappish and doze off if he wasn't constantly chugging caffeine—but Locus enjoyed the strange clarity of long-term exhaustion. And how Felix seemed to feel personally injured by his calm.

It's been getting harder and harder for Locus to sleep without nightmares anyway. He had thought that maybe, if he stayed awake long enough, he might find that clarity again. Maybe the endless, repeating worry of _What will they make me do, what will they make me do,_ would finally stop.

Locus takes his sword and his sniper rifle with him. His sword because, ever since the nightmare about Felix, he always wants it in his hand. His sniper rifle, because he wants to take it apart and clean it again. He's done so twice in the last twelve hours—he knows he doesn't need to again—but the routine is another thing that used to calm him.

It doesn't calm him now.

He _tries._ He disassembles the sniper rifle down, cleans each of the pieces, and arranges them in rows. The motions are so familiar, he could do them in his sleep, but they're not hypnotic the way they once were. He can't find the mindless peace that was his refuge for years. His hands won't stop shaking.

He is too monstrous to become a human again, but it seems he isn't strong enough to go back to being a weapon.

And that's when Locus hears it. Just a soft thud, like somebody stubbing a toe. During the chaos of a normal day, he wouldn't even have noticed it. But now—when everyone else is _finally_ asleep—

It's probably Grif or Caboose, he thinks. They both like to raid the kitchen at night, and they both like to seek him out if they guess that he's awake.

But Caboose doesn't stub his toe, he crashes into things and destroys them. Grif stubs his toe sometimes, but there's always a torrent of cursing.

As Locus thinks this, he is already regretting that he's out of his armor, that his rifle is in pieces. But he was a bounty hunter for years without armor, without active camo. He knows how to move silently in the shadows if he must. And he's already grasping his sword.

Locus sees them before they see him: three Charon mercenaries, dressed in standard-issue armor—and he realizes, dizzily, that they could be men he had once commanded. They could be part of the reason he had first doubted Felix and Hargrove, could be the people he had once wanted to keep faith with and protect.

Now they are here to kill him.

For one moment, Locus hesitates. 

Because he could step out of the shadows and let them kill him. It would be a just death, certainly. And then he'd never have to find out what the Reds and Blues are making him into. He'd never have to kill again. He'd be—

_too afraid to take responsibility for what you've done_

—and he doesn't have the right, Locus realizes despairingly. He can't seek to die, not when the Reds and Blues have use for him, have so much claim on him.

And he can't let the Charon mercenaries live, when they would probably be happy to kill everyone in this base.

He thinks, _I don't do that anymore._ But he's lost the right to make those choices. And he can't see any of the Reds and Blues hurt, not again. The last time he refused to kill, Agent Washington got shot through the neck.

So Locus draws his sword and shakes the blade into being.

One of the soldiers yelps, "Aw, fuck, there he is!"

He's out of time. Locus lunges forward, his form perfect, but then he has to dodge the first spray of bullets and the stroke goes wild. Instead of plunging the blade into the nearest soldier's chest, he slices his head off.

Blood sprays through the air, splatters across his face, and it smothers him into the mindless calm he had wanted earlier. Locus doesn't flinch; the blood is still warm on his face as he pivots, ducks the spray of bullets, and then cuts down the next soldier. And the next.

Locus stands over them, panting for breath. He's waking up from the mindless calm, and his stomach pitches in horror. There's so much blood, and the bodies—

He's no stranger to slaughter. He's seen worse things, _done_ worse things. But except for his time as a bounty hunter, he'd always been safely encased in his armor. He didn't have to feel his clothes heavy and sticky with blood. Didn't have to choke on the smell.

Didn't have to remember the sensation of driving a sword through somebody's neck. 

He realizes, distantly, that he's trembling. He knows that he should be searching for more intruders, but he can't bring himself to move.

"Hey, dude, what are you— HOLY SHIT."

The voice startles him into action. Locus turns, and sees Grif in the doorway. He's in boxers and a ratty old "I ❤️ HAWAI'I" t-shirt, his hair is a rumpled mess, and he's staring at Locus with a kind of sick horror—

_turning over a new fucking leaf, dude, I am ALL about it!_

—and Locus knows this is what they wanted from him, surely it's what even _Grif_ wanted from, him but he's still ashamed to be seen like this. Especially by Grif.

"It's Charon," he says, "wake the others," and then he flees to go hunting.

This is acceptable, he tells himself. This is what they prepared him for. This is what they allowed him to live for. So he could be the blade in the dark that destroys their enemies.

But he can't find any. Did Charon send only three soldiers? He supposes it's not impossible; they sent only one after him in his cell.

From around the corner, he hears somebody moving. He lunges forward, blade out—

Straight at Tucker, barefoot and defenseless in his pajamas.

Locus tries to pull the strike, and at the same time Tucker jerks back. But neither of them moves fast enough. There's a horrible sizzling noise, and then there's a gash sliced into Tucker's upper arm. Locus can smell it.

Tucker staggers back. _"Fuck,"_ he moans, clutching at his arm. 

Locus can't move. He can't speak. He's staring at the burnt, bloody wound. It's the only thing he can see, the only thing that matters.

He was supposed to _protect_ them.

Then he hears Agent Washington's voice: " _What the fuck did you do?_ "

And Locus knows he is going to die.

He looks up. Agent Washigton is bearing down on him. Locus sees the cold fury in his eyes, knows that he is a monster and he deserves this. 

He drops the sword.

The next moment, Agent Washington's fist crashes into his face.

* * *

Locus wakes up slowly. There are voices nearby, but they're too fuzzy to make out. He can tell that he's sitting against the wall, that his arms and his legs are cuffed together, but every time he tries to think about where he is, his thoughts spin out of control.

Slowly, the world begins to makes sense again. He remembers what happened, how he failed. 

He opens his eyes.

He's back in the rec room, with all the Reds and Blues. They're not watching him, though: they're gathered around Tucker, who's sitting in a chair. Agent Washington is fussing over him with a can of biofoam.

"Calm the fuck down," says Tucker. "It's just a graze."

"A deep graze," says Agent Washington.

"Yeah," says Tucker, "so stop that creepy staring."

"Stop getting _hurt,"_ Agent Washington mutters.

"Do you need a blanket?" asks Caboose.

"FUCK NO." Tucker shoves him away and straightens up. Then he looks straight at Locus. "So. I'm guessing this was an accident?"

Everyone turns to look at him. Several people—including Agent Washington—level guns at him. 

"He's clearly not rational," says Simmons. "Let's just drug him up and get out of here before more Charon sends more people."

"He fucking saved our asses," says Grif.

"And he hurt Tucker," says Agent Washington. The cold fury is gone from his voice, but his rifle stays pointed at Locus.

"Well, that is only a little thing between friends," says Caboose. "I mean I killed Church, and he didn't mind."

"He fucking hated you," says Tucker, but he's not really paying attention to Caboose, he's staring at Locus.

And Locus wishes he had a way to hide.

"Dr. Grey told us he could easily have a nervous breakdown," says Simmons. "Am I the only one who remembers that?"

"She's kind of insane herself," Grif mutters.

Agent Carolina steps closer to Locus and looks directly into his eyes. "Do you remember what happened?" 

Her voice is calm, clear. Like a soldier's.

"Yes," Locus says hoarsely. 

"Tell us," she orders him.

They already know what happened: he hurt Tucker. 

But Locus looks at all the eyes staring at him and realizes that he still needs to confess it, the same way he confessed all his crimes to Kimball during his interrogation. That had been . . . unpleasant. But this feels worse—even though he knows, logically, that what he did to Tucker is not as bad as what he did to Chorus. 

Even though he _knows_ that he was already condemned, that their kindness was never real.

"I couldn't sleep," he says, looking down at his cuffed hands because he doesn't want to see their faces as he tells this story. "I came in here to clean my sniper rifle. I heard a noise. I went to investigate and found three Charon mercenaries." He remembers the blood splattering hot across his face—he thinks he can still feel the sticky, dried-out remnants—and he has to fight a sudden wave of nausea. "I killed them. Grif arrived and I told him to wake you. Then I went to look for more." His heart is pounding; he forces himself to keep his words slow and steady. "I heard footsteps. I thought it was more of them, so I prepared to attack. But it was Tucker."

There's a short pause.

"Why did you kill them?" Agent Washington asks.

It's the last question Locus had expected. He looks up, startled, and sees—

He's not sure what he's seeing in Agent Washington's face. In any of their faces. They're not happy, he can tell that, but there's not quite the sort of rage or disgust he'd expected.

"They . . . attacked us," he says uncertainly. "Should I have waited for orders?"

The question is wrong somehow. He knows that as soon as he says it: Agent Washington twitches slightly, and Grif looks suddenly angry. Tucker mutters something under his breath.

"No," says Agent Carolina. "It was a good call. But why did you kill them? I thought you didn't do that anymore."

Locus flinches at the reminder of how foolish he was, thinking he could be redeemed.

"Yeah," says Tucker, "I thought you were into kneecapping people or some shit."

Sarge laughs. "Entirely understandable! What's the point of going on a diet if you aren't allowed to cheat on it with a little murder now and then?"

Locus doesn't know why they're asking him this. Unless, perhaps, they want confirmation that he understands his place.

So he gives it to them.

"Because it's my job," he says. "That's why you're keeping me. So I can kill for you."

There's another short, brittle silence.

"You are so fucked up," says Grif.

Locus flinches. But it's true. He's fucked up, his brain is broken, he's a _monster._ He spent years trying to deny that fact, and an entire planet nearly died for it.

A good person, a _normal_ person, wouldn't need to be a weapon.

"Yes," he says.

"Not this shit again," Tucker groans.

"What?" says Agent Carolina.

"It's just like Wash! We adopted him and he was all like, ooh, I'm a Freelancer, I gotta be a perfect soldier or you'll throw me out."

"I wasn't like that," Agent Washington mutters.

Tucker rolls his eyes. "No, you were worse than that."

"And _you_ barely deserved to be called a soldier," Agent Washington shoots back.

"FUCK YOU, I SAVED A PLANET—"

"Locus." Agent Washington's voice is quiet but it carries. "We don't want you to kill. Not if you don't want to."

Locus stares at him. The words don't make any _sense._ If they don't want him to kill, then—then—

"You're in protective custody," says Agent Carolina. "Do you think we're going to break our promise to Kimball?"

"Plus, some of us are kinda starting to like you," says Grif. "Seriously, we _shared our beer with you._ Why would you think that means we want you to be a killer?"

Locus feels dizzy. Without thinking, he lets the words slip out: "Felix did."

"Yeah, well, we're assholes, but we're better than him," says Grif. "Hey, since Locus is clearly _not_ going to snap and kill us, can we take the cuffs off?"

"Or else he needs to tell us his safe word," Donut chimes in.

Agent Carolina is the one who undoes the cuffs. Locus stares at her, at his wrists, and then Agent Washington says, "C'mon, big guy," and hauls him to his feet.

It still doesn't make sense.

"I don't understand," he says. "What do you want me to do?"

"We kinda want you to hang out with us," says Grif.

"Not waking up screaming would be a good start," says Tucker.

"We want you to be okay," says Agent Washington.

It's that last word, _okay,_ when he will never be anything close to it—it's Agent Washington's voice, and the clear sympathy in his face—it's everything too much all at once.

"I don't—" Locus blurts out, and then isn't sure how to finish.

_I don't deserve it._

_I don't know how._

_I don't believe you._

Then Caboose says, "Yeah, I think you need a hug," and the next moment Locus's ribs are aching under his armored grip.

This time he doesn't say, _I hate this._ He doesn't try to break free. It's too much effort and he's not worth it, he doesn't deserve it—

He makes himself relax, realign into Caboose's grip. _I deserve this,_ he thinks, and realizes too late that it's not a punishment, he _loves_ it.

They're all still watching him, and none of them seem angry, and Locus doesn't understand but he's willing to obey them. He'll always be willing. And he thinks—maybe this is his duty, his orders. To trust them. 

He thinks, cautiously, _Maybe this is real._


End file.
